Birth is a guarantee of death,
life is a series of near misses,
and occasional sentinel events,
in the end, we fade to black.
The flower's colored blooms,
wilt to brown and fall away,
turn to dust in the wind,
just as youth is over in an eye-blink.
Dark spots and waning sight,
the music sounds turns
to black notes on a white page,
that simply turns to fuzz, then nothing.
All that is or ever was you,
returns from whence it came,
cosmic matter scattered,
as in the big bang.